know. Real kind and thing. But she and de man can't get along. So I holding strain here till she can split and then goin’ be together." In spite of our growing familiarity, I didn't know quite how to respond to this. "That sounds good, man," I say, "but it sounds kind of complicated too." "There ain't nothing complicated 'bout um," Eric replies, brimming with the confidence of a man who has thought about a situation for a long time. "Once she get outta there, everything will be easy, man. No sweat. I hope it's soon, ‘cause this frigging place does give me de creeps." "You know," Eric continues, readjusting himself on the sofa, "so much shite does go on in here, you hear, I does pray to God each night to let me see another day... alive." Is Eric's statement mere exaggeration fueled by the rum? Is he joking? Why do my knees suddenly feel weak? Why, when we decide to retire, do I bolt my door, push the suitcase firmly up against it, lock all the windows, and pray to God?
Saturday, September 2 I get up around 10 o'clock. Last night Eric and I planned to go over to Carrington Village tonight to get some barbecue pigtails and hang around a bit. As I come down the staircase, the severely acned man with the sleek hair briskly approaches and bounds up the stairs with what looks like a postal package. He cast a furtive glance at me as he did so, and I think how strange he always seems to act. He is always well-dressed, this morning in brown cotton pants with several outer pockets on the thighs, a white cotton shirt, and brown moccasins. But those deep craters on his face and the glinting eyes create an aura of suspicion and dread.
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